Hours
by GallifreyenCultOfSkaro
Summary: Jim pressed the gun into Sally's now-shaking hands.  "Sebastian here has just given Sherlock a dose of poison.  Every hour, if you haven't shot him, he'll get another dose.  The more he gets, the worse the pain.  Your choice."
1. Missing

John was woken up by the sound of the phone ringing. He did not want to get up. It was the first time in over 48 hours that he had actually had any sleep, and it wasn't fair that he should have to give it up all for some bloody stupid phone call. However, he could already feel it slipping away, and much like a cold breeze, he could feel daylight and reality and being awake slip over him.

Sighing, he got out of bed and went downstairs, looking around for his flatmate.

"Sherlock?"

"Busy." came the reply from the kitchen, and John briefly wondered if it was possible that Sherlock had actually managed to blow something up already. He quickly dismissed the unpleasant thought from his mind, and picked up the still-ringing phone.

"Hello?"

"John." A tight, worried voice reached up the line. "It's Lestrade. You've got to get down here, you and Sherlock."

Hearing the obvious distress in his friend's voice, John said, "Lestrade, is everything...alright? I mean, obviously something's happened, but...is there anything..._else_?"

A pause. "...John, it's Sally Donovan."

"What? Sergeant Sally Donovan? Why, what's happened to her? Is she hurt?"

"She's gone missing, John. Her flat's empty, but there's...well, there's a note. Just thought you should come and, you know...take a look."

"Oh, God...I am so sorry, Lestrade, really. I mean...God. Missing? _Sally_? It's just...Jesus Christ, Greg. It's a bit of a shock, I suppose. Look, we'll be there in ten. Okay. Bye."

John hung up and made his way through to the kitchen, where Sherlock was setting fire to something. He didn't ask what. John cleared his throat.

"Um, Sherlock, we, uh, we need to get down to the Yard."

The consulting detective didn't look up. "Why?"

"There's been an abduction. Sally Donovan. Went missing this morning, and there's a note in her flat."

At this, Sherlock looked up. "What?"

"Sergeant Donovan, Sherlock. Abducted, this morning, note in her flat! Now, I know that whoever did it is probably doing you a favour, but I am going to help and you are coming with me, like it or not."

"You think whoever took Sally Donovan is doing me a favour?" Sherlock asked, actually sounding...surprised.

"Well, it's not exactly a secret that you two hate each other."

"That doesn't mean I want to see an innocent person kidnapped. Sergeant Donovan is many things, and it's true that she doesn't like me and I'm not particularly fond of her either, but she's still an innocent person."

John just stared at Sherlock. He didn't think he'd ever seen his flatmate give such an amazing display of humanity. Shaking his head as if to shake off the shock, he said,

"Right, will I, uh, call us a cab, then?"

The small fire in front of Sherlock suddenly flared up, causing the two men to leap back from the table.

"You get a cab, I'll be right behind." Sherlock said, eyeing the fire. John nodded.

"Right. I'll meet you at the Yard."

_Rain. Everywhere, it's raining. Small, silver droplets, falling from the sky. Rain, rain's good. Clears my head, helps me to think._

_There's no cabs. Looks like I'm walking to the Yard. I don't mind, it isn't far. Not for me, anyhow. Besides, it's nice to get everything out of my mind. So full, always _so damn full_, everything, all the time, like a clock...never stops _ticking_, but the rain...just focus on the wet drumbeat, the splash of feet in puddles, the rain slowly soaking my clothes, my skin, everything...like it's a part of me, soaking right _into_ me..._

_The rain is nice. A welcome, a relief. Rain doesn't ask questions, not like people do. It doesn't matter what people say, they can call me what they like now, because the rain will always drown it out. That comforting, familiar pitter-patter, at the windows, on the roof, against the door...just the rain, that's all there is...washing everything else away, making it all clean again...I can forget everything, forget I'm _me_. I'm just another human being, caught up in the rain, swept along in the storm. _

_Why do they all shelter from it? The rain? They crave their voices being heard above all others, to stand tall over everyone else...don't they want the rain's shelter? The protection it offers? In the rain, you are anyone._

_Sometimes I wish it rained forever. Just me, trapped, in the eternal downpour. The rain would wash away all else, all other people..._

_Mycroft always told me caring is a disadvantage. Just for now, I don't need to worry about that. I'm just _here_, enjoying the feel of water trickling down my skin, cleaning me, _hiding _me. _

_Nobody else understands. Even John wouldn't understand. Rain makes me invisible, just another one of the crowd. For once, I'm not the freak of Scotland Yard or the high-functioning sociopath, shooting the wall in 221B. _

_What I'm saying is that I'm not a _label_. _

_I know how they see me, and it irritates me to death. Their absolute stupidity. How well they think they know me. It's like they think people have a word printed on their head, and that's them. That one label is one person, like we're all two-dimensional. They never think to look any deeper, that there might be more. John tries, I know he does, and Mrs Hudson. Even Lestrade makes an effort, but they are all _just so bloody stupid_. They can't understand; everything, running through my head at every hour of the day and night. It's not just that sleeping slows me down, it's that my mind simply does not have the ability to stop until I'm about to collapse of exhaustion. I didn't _ask_ for my mind to be the way it is, but most days I honestly don't care. It's just a part of me, one I know well and can use to my advantage. But it's stupid people like Donovan and Anderson that really get on my nerves when they think they know it all, but really they don't know the half of it. _

_Freak._

_Psychopath._

_Thinking they can sum it all up in little short words that mean absolutely nothing. Because they don't know what it's like, always thinking, always on the go. When I was a child, believe it or not, all I wanted was to be normal. I don't think about it so much now, but it always gets me when people think they know me so well, know how I work, what I am, and they've only just scratched the surface. They don't understand, they never will understand._

_It gives me an excuse to hide, just a few short minutes of privacy. Nobody pays attention to you in the rain; they're all too busy hurrying home to dry off._

_I'm like a ghost, like a phantom, passing, unseen, through the London streets._

The cab pulled up smartly next to him, sending ripples through all the puddles, still being filled more and more with rain. Without even thinking about it, Sherlock stopped walking and got in, telling the driver,

"Scotland Yard, quickly, if you don't mind."

In the grey, rainy half-light, the driver gave a rather sinister smile. "Certainly, sir. New Scotland Yard it is."

They never got there.

In retrospect, getting into a taxi that just _happened_ to pull up next to him when he was cold, wet, and almost totally lost in thought probably _hadn't_ been the best idea Sherlock had ever had, if the chloroform mask currently being forced over his face was anything to go by.


	2. Poison

It wasn't a dilapidated warehouse. It wasn't an abandoned country manor. It wasn't even the basement of someone's smelly old flat.

It was a room in a Premier Inn, about 10 miles outside of London. Rather an odd place to take someone after kidnapping them, but, all the same, it was nice to wake up on a soft mattress in a warm bed than a cold, hard, and probably quite dirty, floor.

At first, Sherlock thought he was home, safely tucked away in 221B, Baker Street. And then he saw the face. To be more precise, he saw Donovan's face, large, scared eyes staring at him from the other side of the room. And unless everyone got very, very drunk last night, there wasn't a reason why she should be in his flat. Which means she wasn't in his flat. So he wasn't in his flat, either.

_Rain...I was in the rain...there was a cab, I think..._

His groggy mind tried and failed to piece together what had just happened. Rain. Sherlock definitely remembered rain. Then he was getting into the taxi. Going to...Scotland Yard? Yes, the Yard, that was it! They had a case, then. Wait, no...no case...

All at once, three things connected in his mind.

_Strange room in not-my-flat. Sally's here. I've probably been drugged._

They merged together to form one very logical conclusion.

_Bloody hell, not again._

Sherlock liked cases, yes. _Interesting_ cases. But, really, chloroform? Like he hadn't seen that before. The using-a-taxi-to-hunt-in-the-middle-of-the-crowd thing? Been there, done that, it was on the blog and everything.

The Premier Inn thing was new, though. Quite clever, too, as no-one would ever have thought of looking in one.

"Rather a good idea of mine, don't you think?" Jim Moriarty asked. Sherlock spun round to face him, or, at least, tried to; the fact that he was lying down, and the tangle of bed sheets, plus the effects of the chloroform stopped him. Moriarty smiled down at him, not a normal smile, but the kind of smile which reminded Sherlock of a snake right before it went for the kill.

"No, no, no, don't try to move yet. Can't have you wasting all that precious energy. You're going to need it later. Won't he, Seb?"

That was when Sherlock noticed the man standing next to Moriarty. He was tall, skinny, with a mop of dark tangles atop his head. His clothes consisted of a large, droopy black jumper that hung down to his knees. Long legs were clad in tight black jeans, and, in a break from the rest of the outfit's colour scheme, he wore emerald-green converse. If he hadn't been so wound up in sheets, Sherlock would've done a double-take. He didn't look at all like the kind of man Moriarty would hire. As if he could read the other man's mind, Jim said,

"Sebastian is my sniper, and occasionally my personal assistant. His job sometimes requires him to...dress up a little."

Really, Sherlock shouldn't have been surprised. After all, he had John, Mycroft had (not)Anthea, so Jim, naturally, had a sniper called Sebastian.

"Sebastian, would you do the honours?"

Jim's voice cut into Sherlock's train of thought, but before he had even fully processed what he just said, Sebastian was sticking a needle in his arm. Quickly, he pulled away, but not before almost all of the needle's contents had made their way into his arm. When Moriarty spoke again, it was to Sally Donovan.

"Sebastian here has just injected Sherlock with a dose of poison."

_Poison?_ Sherlock's mind raced. Still, he wasn't feeling any effects from it yet, so maybe it wasn't designed to kill him. Not yet, anyway. From his position on the bed, Sherlock could see Moriarty pressing something into Sally's hands. He couldn't see what it was, but the way she was holding it, from the rough size and shape, he was pretty sure it was a gun.

"Every hour, I will be checking, and, every hour, if you haven't shot him..."

Definitely a gun, then.

"...He'll receive another shot. The more shots he gets, the worse the pain becomes. You can end his life quickly or watch him suffer in agony." Here, Jim's voice dropped until it was so low, Sherlock had to strain his ears to hear it. "Your choice, Sally Donovan."

Sebastian was already at the door, Jim behind him. Just before he left, he turned to Sherlock with that venomous snake's grin again. "Have fun without me."

And with a quick waggle of fingers, a slam of a door, the click of a lock, Sherlock Holmes was left lying on a bed in a Premier Inn, with no-one knowing where he was, and poison running through his blood.


	3. Choice

**Sally's POV.**

This...this is bloody ridiculous. First, I'm kidnapped from my own flat, taken to some _Premier Inn _ of all places, held hostage by a psychopath...and now the Freak's here, too! What. Did I ever. Do in my life. To deserve. To be stuck here. With him?

To make things worse, I've never even seen the psycho that kidnapped me, but judging by the expression on the Freak's face right now, _he_ knows him. Great. That's all I need. Someone he's pissed off mistaking me for his friend and dragging me into his little game.

"Sebastian, would you do the honours?"

I can see the skinny guy, Seb, standing over the bed. I can't see too well, but it looks like he just used some sort of needle. Seriously, what the _hell _is going on? Perhaps they've decided to tell me, because that psychopath from this morning is turning to look at me.

"Sebastian here has just injected Sherlock with a dose of poison." He says, gesturing towards his sniper-PA-live-in-whatever-he-is. What's he taking out of his pocket? Is that a- shit. I've been kidnapped by a mad Irish psychopath, who's taken me away to some Premier Inn, which I can only hope is somewhere near London, and to top it all off, now he has a gun.

What's he doing? He's...he's giving me the gun. _Me_. As if I would hesitate to shoot the bastard. Behind him, I see Seb smile slightly, and I know he knows exactly what I'm thinking. And I also know that if I so much as lay a finger, never mind a bullet, on that guy, he'll kill me without even blinking.

Oh, that weirdo's started talking again.

"...will be checking, and every hour, if you haven't shot him, he'll get another shot. The more shots he gets, the worse the pain becomes. End his life quickly or watch him suffer in agony. Your choice, Sally Donovan."

I want to slap him, kick him, _kill_ this absolutely insane madman, but I'm frozen with shock. Even after he leaves, it's at least five minutes before I feel safe enough to move again. The Freak's just lying where they left him, on the bed, watching me. In a strange, slightly creepy way, it's almost reassuring, because I'm not here on my own, and even if we don't like each other, well, at least we actually _know_ each other. All the same, it's awkward, and I don't know what to do, so I just say,

"What do you think you're looking at?"

To my surprise, he actually looks away. I sort of wish I hadn't said that now, because I've just remembered that he knows that Irish bloke, and he might have been able to tell me something about him. Not that it would help anyway, because he's gone, and I seriously think he honestly expects me to have shot the Freak by the time he gets back. Well, no chance. That psychotic madman kidnapped me from my own flat and held me hostage, so if there's one thing I'm sure of, it's that I'm not doing him any favours.

At least, that's what I can tell myself for now. Because, in an hour, when they poison him again, and the hour after that, and the hour after that, I've no idea what I'll do.

Let him suffer in agony or end his life now.

My choice.


	4. Hours

**Okay, before we begin, a proper Author's Note. First off, THANK YOU SO MUCH to all of my wonderful reviewers! That would be;**

**Nutty Nube, Aussieflower, Prothoe, princessangelwings, Floppybunnies, MarriedUnderCherryTrees33, Awesome-Sauce-Eater, Sarah, ChelGallifreya221B613, Nos, Daughter of Poseidon014, & haliona. I love you all so so much! The same goes to everyone who alerted, favourited, and put me on author alert/favourite author. I cannot believe the **_**international**_** response I've had :D **

**Also, apologies for torturing you all so much. I've been left on a cliffhanger with the latest instalment of **_**Gakuen Alice**_**, and I'm afraid I've rather vented my frustration at Tachibana Huguchi-sensei at you lot. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own **_**Sherlock**_**, the actual character of Sherlock, Sally, Jim Moriarty, or Seb, though I suppose I own my gothy emoish kinda version of Seb...**

**Oh, and there hasn't been much of the 'horror' genre in here yet. Apologies for that. Just wait until the poison kicks in...**

_**...Hours...**_

How long had passed? Twenty minutes? More? Sherlock had lost count. At least Sally hadn't shot him yet, although going by what Moriarty had said, that wasn't necessarily a good thing. The worst part was, he wasn't even sure what was the better option; chancing it with the poison and having the slim opportunity of escape, or being shot and dying, albeit less painfully.

As it happened, Sally wasn't going to shoot him. Not unless it went on so long that killing him would be the kindest option.

The first hour was almost up. Before long, Jim's pet sniper would be back, and again, and again. Right now, the poison in his system was borderline undetectable. After a few hours, it would rise to a dull, throbbing ache. By the six-hour mark, it would be stinging. After twelve hours, it would be properly hurting, but not strongly. After twenty-four hours, Moriarty, Sherlock was sure, would really be enjoying himself. By the time the 48-hour mark rolled around, he could only hope John or Lestrade had found them. He refused to let himself even think about anything past 72 hours. He wasn't sure if it was a blessing or a curse that he would probably be unconscious by then.


	5. Burn

"Why didn't you fight back?"

The words were out of Sally's mouth before she'd even had a chance to properly realise she'd thought them. _Maybe he'll ignore me,_ she thought. No such luck.

"In case you hadn't noticed, they did drug us both to get us here. Tell me, how did _you_ feel after waking up?"

_Not too good,_ Sally thought to herself, but didn't say it out loud.

Jim Moriarty was getting restless. Ten minutes. Ten minutes until he could resume his little game. But oh, those ten torturous minutes of _waiting_ were driving him crazy!

"Sir, maybe you should just go home. I can deal with them for a few hours, they'll be too weak to do anything but lie there with that chloroform mix we gave them."

"Oh, yes, great idea, Seb. I'll just go home, make myself a cuppa, put my feet up, watch some telly. Maybe I can also get a cat and a big flashing sign that reads 'idiot' above my head!"

Sebastian wondered if Jim actually remembers saying these things, because he always seemed genuinely curious as to why Seb rarely made suggestions.

He sighed. "Yes, sir."

"You can go now, Seb."

A nod. "Of course, sir."

Once out in the corridor, Sebastian resisted the urge to go and check on their prisoners himself. This wasn't his way of killing people. He had been taught as a child to give people the treatment you expected yourself, and when he died, he would want it to be quick, painless. As far as possible, when he shot people, he tried to make it clean and fast.

Poison just wasn't his thing. That gun in Sally Donovan's hands –_his_ gun, no less- could kill Sherlock Holmes before the pain even really started. It would be kind, a mercy killing. And he may as well shoot Sally, too, because Jim would be sure to be keeping tabs on her after this, and if he decided to kill her, too, he'd bet all his money that it wouldn't be quick and painless.

Sebastian wondered about poison. He wondered what people saw in it.

Jim wondered about poison.

Poison was very much _his thing_; where was the fun in getting it all over with quickly? There was _no_ fun in that, no _game_. No mind to twist, no heart to burn.

Carl Powers had been 'quick'. Quick to die, that is. Jim liked to drag these things out, but he couldn't risk getting caught, and anyway, it shut Carl up. Stopped him laughing.

Jim laughed. Oh, how he had laughed that day. And how he had laughed 15 years later, when he stopped Sherlock Holmes. Only for a minute, granted, but that instant of fear across his face when he saw John Watson...that was what he lived for.

Jim knew not all poison was in a pill, a needle, a bottle. 'Poison of the heart' was his favourite expression for it; a poison that people willingly gave without realising it. He likes to say that is what was almost the end of Sherlock Holmes at that pool. When he saw John Watson, strapped into that bomb.

Take someone's friends, their family, even their pets. Anything of value to them, was poison to them, in the right hands, in the right way. Jim was those hands. He knew what to do, how to manipulate people by using those they love. He knew how to make it hurt.

For all Jim knew about poison, for all he loved it, he had never once felt its burn himself. He wondered, what would it be like? The chemical burn burrowing under his skin, splashing inside him, _killing him_. Just once, how would it feel to be on the receiving end?

Jim wondered about poison. He wondered if he was immune to it.

Sally wondered about poison.

She'd seen the victims, they all had; the old woman that's been found on New Years' Day, the family of four, the single depressed mother. Sherlock.

She wondered why anyone would choose such a horrible method of death. Oh, pills that painlessly put you under, they were fine. All in all, not a painful way to leave.

But what about those in the past, when they didn't have such things. People who'd drunk lye. Why not just use a gun? Why not jump in front of a car? Off a cliff?

Did they _want_ it to be painful?

If they were resorting to suicide, surely they must have had enough pain for a lifetime.

Was the pain good, in some way? Did it help them? Were they happier to die because it meant the pain would go away?

Sally wondered about poison. She wondered why it hurt.

Sherlock wondered about poison.

He wondered how to make it burn, make it freeze. He wondered how to use it. Yes, poison could be very, very useful to him in his experiments, but since moving into 221B Baker Street, he had been extremely careful about _how_ he used it. He still left body parts in the fridge and the microwave, but he would never put his collection of death liquids anywhere John or Mrs Hudson could find them. One could end up in the soup, or a cup of tea, the chicken stew...

So, yes.

Sherlock only used poison in his experiments, because that was where he could control them. He could control what he did, how he did it, and what happened. He could make sure they only were experiments, not a name on Mrs Hudson or John's death certificates.

He used it, manipulated it, and it gave him answers. To questions in his mind, to crimes Lestrade had called him in on, to stop him being bored.

But this poison, the poison that was the game of Jim Moriarty and his pet sniper, this was poison he couldn't control. Couldn't control who it touched, who it hurt. Who it _killed_. Would they use it on Sally, too, once he was dead? Granted, he didn't _like _her, but, as far as enemies went, there were other people he would far rather use the poison on.

Sherlock wondered about poison. He wondered why he couldn't control it.

John knew poison. As a doctor, but, more recently, as a friend. As Sherlock's friend. This kidnapping, this game, it wasn't just for those involved. It was also for those who were left behind. Moriarty's 'poison of the heart'.

The fact that Sherlock had failed to show up at the Yard was worrying enough. He wouldn't, for anything, pass up a case.

So maybe whoever had taken Sally had taken him, too.

And John had a fair idea who that might me.

John _was_ the poison. And he was going to make Jim Moriarty burn.

A knock at the door. Jim's gleeful voice on the other side.

"Hour's up, Sherlock!"

**Dun dun dunnnnn! I'll upload the next part really soon, I promise. And the last chapter looked longer on Microsoft Word. And I had exams. And stuff. And I've been away with no internet connection for two weeks.**

**But I hope you have all enjoyed, and I know it is short, but still...**

**Reviews, please? ^_^ ^-^**

**Gallifreyen x**


	6. Escape

**Oh. My. Gosh. You guys, I feel **_**terrible**_**. That is the last time I tell you I'm going to update soon, because I never do! -_- Does it make up for it (a bit) if I promise that I will at least finish this story? I know it's short. I do have my excuses -several shows, revision, being away with no internet, etc, etc.- but I still should've updated. I'm so sorry! I know I don't deserve it, but a review would be nice...?**

The door swung open, revealing Moriarty, clad in an immaculate Westwood suit, and Sebastian, still in his oversized jumper and skinny jeans. Sherlock had to resist the urge to laugh. It was the most bizarre thing he'd ever seen in his life.

Instead, he settled for a slight, very Sherlock, smirk. "Come to finish me off?"

"Not yet." Jim replied. "Seb?"

Sebastian moved forward to give Sherlock the next dose of liquid, but Sherlock had other ideas. He closed his arm around the sniper's, not totally preventing the injection of the poison, but certainly asking for his attention.

"Yes?" Seb asked, secretly glad to put off the job.

"I don't think I want to take this poison." Sherlock told him. "Actually, I don't want to stay here at all."

The world's only consulting detective forced himself up off the bed and made his way to the door.

"Nice little trick, soundproofing the room. Too bad you didn't think to add an extra lock."

"You bastard!" Sally shouted after him. She was still too tired to move. How on Earth he'd managed to sit up, let alone leave the room, was a mystery. But one thing was for certain; she wasn't going anywhere, like it or not.

Moriarty smiled down at her. "Oh, I wouldn't worry, he'll be back. He can't go far with the mix of chloroform and- well, you don't need to know, do you?"

"Yes, I bloody well do! What the hell have you given me?!"

The consulting criminal turned his attention back to Seb.

"Sebastian, go fetch him back, would you?" he asked, examining his fingernails in a way which showed exactly how bored he was, and how he might shoot something soon if he didn't find a distraction. Or maybe bomb upper London.

Whichever.

Sherlock made it halfway downstairs before collapsing. Sebastian hauled him up, stopping to give an apologetic smile to a couple of bemused-looking students.

"He's had a bit much to drink." he told them. "Don't worry, I've got him. He'll be fine in the morning."

Sherlock tried to wriggle free, but only ended up collapsing again, which did nothing except back up Moran's story. Said story was repeated twice more before they made it back to the room -on the top floor, Sherlock noticed, no chance of escaping through the window, then- and the detective was unceremoniously set down on the bed.

The still-bound up sergeant opened her mouth to deliver the first in a long string of insults, then thought the better of it. The attention was currently focused on Sherlock; she didn't want to remind the Consulting Criminal that she was there, too.

"You've been misbehaving, Sherlock," Moriarty was saying in his sing-song way. "Trying to escape? Tut tut, that won't do. So, just to be certain,"

This was punctuated by the stabbing of a poison needle into the detective's arm.

"I thought I'd give you another dose."

Another stab.

"Except this one's a little stronger."

Final injection.

"So you'll soon be feeling some pain. But don't worry. I'm only just getting started."

Another needle.

"And that's just some extra sedative. Just in case you decide to run off again." He turned to leave. "Oh, and, Sergeant? I'm sure it's perfectly clear what happens to him if _you_ try anything."

Sherlock glowered from behind the tangle of sheets. Sally didn't say or do anything, but she was sure her disgust for the two men must be showing on her face.

"I'll be seeing you, Sherlock." Moriarty said, slowly turning away, towards the door.

The door closed, loud and disruptive in the otherwise-silent room. Neither occupant said anything, but Sally was giving Sherlock her most poisonous look from across the room. After a good twenty seconds of this, it began to grate on his nerves a little.

"Sergeant Donovan, as stressful as I appreciate the situation may be for your tiny brain to comprehend, would you stop staring at me? I'm trying to concentrate."

"On _what_?" she snapped. All he was doing was staring into space, or that's what it looked like to her, anyway.

He ignored her.

The words, _You bloody _left _me, you bastard, _died on her tongue. Well, sod him. He may be content to sit and play games, but she'd be damned if she was going to hang around waiting for him.

Sally Donovan was finding her own way out.

**~Gallifreyen-loves-you-all x**


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